Maine Pt. 01

"I'm just sayin' - you need to make sure you're ready for this one because it's gonna be bad."

"I understand winter, Cap. I lived my entire life in Minnesota."

"Them Minnesota winters ain't nothin' compared to what happens here in Maine. We'll be buried so deep by the end of this one that it'll be probably a week before we can get out. And that's if we're lucky."

"Sounds like heaven to me."

The old man grumbled and pulled himself up from the kitchen table. I thought he was finally going to make his way out the door and back to his place when he stopped. Without turning back toward me, he spoke. His voice much softer now, almost gentle. I didn't even know Cap could do gentle.

"Look, missy. I understand you came crawling up to the middle of Maine because you were runnin' from something - something you refuse to discuss with me. Fine. I get that. But I spent the last year lookin' after you and keeping you safe from God knows what -"

"Cap," I start, but he raises his hand to cut me off.

"-and I intend to keep lookin' after you. You may not care what happens to you up here, but I do, and if that means treating you like a goddamn child, then so be it."

I take a moment to let his words soak in. Then I notice it, the sag in his shoulders, the fact that he still isn't facing me. I nod, understanding exactly what he's saying. The pressure he feels to look out for me.

"Okay, Cap. I promise. I promise I'll keep the fire lit. And I promise I'll stay home until I hear from you that the roads are safe."

He sighs. Deep, relieved. And he nods, walking further to the door. Just when his hand reaches the knob, he turns to face me.

"You know, I may be a cranky old man, but I got ears. And somewhere in this rotten old chest is a heart, too. I ain't asked you too much since you been up here 'cause you ain't wanted to talk about whatever it is that's weighing on you. But I see it just the same. I saw it that day you showed up on my doorstep with an envelope of cash, asking to rent this cabin. There ain't nobody who's going to want to live in a shithole like this when they can afford somewhere nicer and closer to town. Only people who'd want this are people who want to hide, to be alone. Now, I don't know why you want to cut yourself off from the rest of the world, and you haven't given me a single hint."

I stand up straighter as he speaks, my hands wringing the dish towel until my knuckles are white. My chest is getting tight. He's getting too close. He needs to stop. He needs to stop pushing right now.

"Cap. Please. Stop."

His face softens now, his voice quieter still. "I know pain when I see it. And the pain you're carrying isn't the kind any doctor or pill can cure. You ain't sick. Your heart is broke. I know it because I've felt it. When my Frannie died-"

That's it. I can't do this. Not now. Not with him. Not when we're hours away from a major blizzard and I'm going to be stuck in these walls for who-knows how long with nothing to do but think. And think. And fucking think.

"You're right, Cap. Your heart did break. Every time you mention Frannie's name, I can hear how much you loved her. How much you still love her." I cross the floor until I'm next to him, my hand gently on his arm, guiding him to the door, hoping to steer him out the door and off the topic of me. "She was a very, very lucky woman to have been loved by you." That does the trick. His whole focus is Frannie now. The old man's eyes well up and he sniffles back a tear. "I haven't even been alive as long as you loved Frannie, so I can't know the kind of pain you feel. But if I had a magic wand, my first wish would be to bring her back to you."

The tears are flowing now. He shakes his head, the hurt as fresh today as it was five years ago when she passed away. "My Frannie," he whispers, barely audible.

"Your Frannie." I repeat softly, ushering him through the now open door and onto the porch. "And right now your Frannie is screaming down from heaven for you to get your grouchy old ass into that truck and back up to your house before this storm hits. Look - flakes are already falling."

A thin dusting of white covers the dirt road that leads from this cabin up to Cap's main house. The temperature's dropped at least 10 degrees from when I got home this afternoon, and I can hear a stronger wind whipping through the tops of the pine trees. I may be protected from the wind under all these trees, but the cold and snow still seem to find a way down. Guess Cap was right to bring me all that firewood. I think I'm going to need it.

He shuffles himself to his old pickup and hoists himself into the drivers seat. The man is over 80 years old, and he still insists on driving a big Ford that he can barely climb into. He swears it's no problem to get into, but the wince on his face tells me otherwise every time he leaves.

The engine rumbles to life, breaking the quiet of the woods. Before he puts it in gear, he turns to look at me. Looks like he's about to say something, but then he just shakes his head, rolls his eyes at me with a half-smile on his face, and then shifts his way up the road. Finally, I'm alone. My favorite way to be.

The news has been hyping up this storm for the last few weeks. Every day there are predictions of record this and records that. Record snowfall. Record cold. Record wind gusts. Last I heard, they're thinking it'll be probably 3, maybe 4 days before just the snow stops falling. Add in the wind gusts they're predicting, and this just might be the "Super Storm" they've named it. Might seem scary to some, but to someone who loves nothing more than being left alone in a cabin deep in the woods, it sounds like perfection.

Once Cap's taillights crest the hill and are out of sight, I make my way back inside. Figure I'd better start the fire now, like I promised, or Cap will be back down here before I even know it, demanding to light the thing himself.

He spent the afternoon while I was in town refilling my wood pile. He may be an old man, but sometimes I think his body forgets. Or maybe his stubborn pride wins out over any pain he may feel. I came home to a heaping pile of firewood next to the fireplace, two new lighters ("just in case, ya know"), and a box of homemade firestarters that he swears by. And there he was, sitting at my kitchen table, reading the newspaper and drinking what was left of my morning coffee. Some people may be offended or freaked out to find their landlord sitting in their house and drinking their coffee, but I figure this is and always has been Cap's place. He's nice enough to let me stay here and - usually - mind his own business that I can forgive his unannounced visits. Especially when I know he only does it because he cares. And right now I'm pretty grateful for all the work he did this afternoon. He's right, I did think my lifetime in Minnesota would've prepped me for anything Maine could do. But I also know that he's lived through 80 Maine winters, and he knows what he's talking about. Speaking of which, I'd better light this thing so he can see the smoke coming out of the chimney. Last thing I need is him coming back down to light the fire himself. That will just turn into supper and another lecture.

I can't help but chuckle as I prep the fireplace. Pattern of wood, firestarter, wood, newspaper, everything I need. I'm just striking the first match when I hear the knock at the door.

"Ugh. Seriously, Cap. Give me three seconds to light the damn thing," I mutter under my breath. The match ignites and the newspaper goes up instantly. I'm watching to see if the flame holds when I hear him knock again. Louder this time.

"Hold on a second!" I yell as I get up from my crouch in front of the fire. Still watching to see if it's lit, I walk backwards to the door. The knocking continues. Even louder now. This is impatient - even for him.

Frustrated, I grab the knob and pull the door open. "Seriously, Cap. You need to give me time to light the damn thi-."

I don't finish my sentence. I don't finish the word. I don't finish my thought. I don't even finish my breath. Standing on the other side of the door isn't an 80-year-old nosy neighbor. It isn't Cap who was knocking, wondering why I didn't have the fire lit yet. It isn't even Cap. It's him. Standing two feet in front of me is the memory I've been running from and the man I've been hoping for.

I open my mouth to say his name but barely breathe a sound before my whole world goes black.